Essex County herald. [volume] (Guildhall, Vt.) 1873-1964, 1887-02-11

olate, ana more nangingS OF laWiesS
characters were going on there per hour
than in any other village, town, or city
on earth. The little community had
long suffered from horse and mule thieves.
but the scoundrels were so adroit and
knew the country so we'll that they were
seldom captured. Once in while, feel
ing secure, one would become indiscreet
or unwary andwould be captured and then
tried before court of igllantes. The
leader of this gang of thieves had never
been caught, and things got so bad that
finally determined effort was made,
and he was captured while riding away
on another mans mule. He was brought
to camp, pleaded not guilty, bit was
sentenced to be hanged ON the following
morning. D., who was member of the
Vigilance Committee, was detailed to
guard the fellow during the night.
One by one the tired miners went to
sleep. Night settled down, aud d. was
left sitting on box, his rife across his
knees, while the outlaw was bound Sc
curely with ropes and tied with his back
to tree only few feet away. The over
land mail had arrived that day, and
aong toward midnight D. lighted can
die and began reading Cincinnati news
paper in an endeavor to make the long
hours pass quickly. The camp was in a
tall pine forest-the treetops SO close to-
gether that they shut out any light from
the stars. Here and there could be
seen miners, rolled up in their blankets,
fast asleep on the ground. A few smol-
der.ng fires still gave little light; now
and then a momentrry flame would shoot
up from one of them, Frightening the
dark night but little, and then through
the gloom could be seen ID. guarding the
prisoner. All was quiet. D. was road
ing home news, when the prisoner, who
had seen the name of the paper, printed
in large type at the top of the page,
broke the silence by saying in low
voice:
Stranger will you let me say few
words to you2 I've got only few
hours, and 1 want to speak to you
little"
eyes," answered D., in a surly tone,
ego on
$40 you hail from Cincinnati, my
friend. see you are reading Cincin-
natl newspaper, and that was my home,
and l would like to ask you, if you ever
go back that way, to tell little lie for
me, and say had been killed fighting
| the Indians, for it would break my poor
old fathers heart if he heard the
truth"
'pll do it," answered D. "But don't
call me your friend"
Something familiar in the prisoners
voice struck D., however, and as the
man talked D. wondered where he had
heard that voice before, and finally
settled on the man as Bill S., who had
been a big boy and in higher class at
st. Francis Xavicr's College when he
himself was little boy there. And in
the tall, broad-shouldered, brawny- cox
ing outlaw, his face hardened by ex-
posure and dissipation, could still he
seen the likeness of the schoolboy who
had run away from home to California.
"Excuse me-" said the prisoner, 'for
calling you my friend, but you were
reading paper from my home, and it
seemed to me I had seen you before.
Did you 90 to the Jesuits' school in
Cincinnati when you we're little boy,
for your face reminds me of youngster
knew there whose name was D., Frank
d., I think ? l remember him very
we'll, because one day he was being bull
lied by bigger boy; he was delicate
and couldn't defend himself, and /
turned in and laid the bully out"
eyes, Bill, said D., II was the boy and
remember it all. But l am sorry to see
you where you are. I didn't think you
had gone 50 low. And now, Bill, you
have got to die in the morning, and if
you have any messages that you want
to send home you had better give them
to me, for your time is short. I will
tell the lie you asked me to tell, and if
necessary will cover it up with thou
sand more"
After remaining in silence for some
time and evidently in deep thought, d.
continued: "BiIl, do you think after
this expeiien G, if you were free again,
that you would lead decent lie and
be ONE good citizen" eyes" said
Pill, 81 would, but there's no show for
me now"
"Well, Bill, if you will promise me
faithfully that you will never steal again
that you will always try to do right, I
will let you go, in remembrance of the
time when you licked that bully to save
me, for think a boy who would do
that would grow TO be man too good
10 hang"
"But Frank" said Bill, "can you do
it and save yourself, for they might
hang you in my place, and I would
rather stay and take my medicine than
do that"
"Never mind about that, Bill. Talk
low and we will arrange the plan. l will
cut your ropes and give you my knife.
In the morning l will be found asleep,
my knife taken, and you gone. When
you go down the caynon take my mule.
Re sure about it, for my life may depend
on that. He is the dun-colored one near
the stream; he wears horse hair halter.
You can't miss him, but be careful. Then
make your way north. ill, sell the
mule, and deposit the money to my
credit in San Francisco The ropes
were cut and Bill was free, and, while
thanking D. and nearly crushing his
hand in saying good bye, D. said to him
''Bill | want to ask you one question
m,re-did you steal that mule2" Yes,
did, Frank. Good bye and God bless
you for this" lie made his way stealth
lily down the canyon and was off
AS morning dawned in the camp and
the miners began stirring, they naturally
', looked to see their prisoner. There was
ID. fast asleep on the ground, his knife
taken, the ropes cut and lying at the foot
of the tree, and the prisoner gone. There
was great excitement. Two or three ran
to D., roughly shook him, and, with
much profanity, asked him if he knew
!, the cuss had escaped D. rubbed his
! eyes in a sleepy sort of way, jumped to
his feet excitcdly, and told the miners